


Several Notions season 3

by hophophop



Series: Several Notions [4]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:57:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 9,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2906720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hophophop/pseuds/hophophop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"I’m about to disabuse you of several notions, so please: listen very carefully.”</em><br/>ficlets, drabbles, and prompt fills originally posted on tumblr over the course of season three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enchanted by This Adventure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/102028509763>: for [sanguinarysanguinity](http://tmblr.co/mg1E8aKAfQ3EWg4ngP-Gonw)
> 
> an epilogue to [Will Be as a Star](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1813216/chapters/4172004) & in response to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/12530184) comment thread (it's a bust of his head!)
> 
> no spoilers; set in a middle-distance future of happy established partnership

_"Not for myself…but for you."_

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When the case was over, and the papier-mâché decoy head had done its job with flying colors, Joan wasn't sure what to do with it. Marcus told her he didn't want it, not even in the trunk. "It's just too creepy, thinking he's staring at me back there. I get enough of that glare from the original model." She laughed at him and offered to put it in a bag. "Nope, doesn't matter how many layers between me and those unblinking eyes," and he shuddered, only half in jest. "We don't need it for the official record. Maybe you can use it as a piñata."

She brought the head home, tossing it lightly up in the air and catching it with one palm and then the other, as she walked down the block from where she parked her car.

In the brownstone, music drifted down the stairwell from above, but the fresh coffee aroma drew her to the kitchen first. She set the bust down on the lock table. After a moment she turned it around to face the wall. Marcus had a point about those eyes... In the kitchen she pulled out the large tray and arranged the carafe, two mugs, and some cream. She looked around, feeling there was something she might...yes. She put the last item on the tray and brought it up, stopping at the lock table again to arrange things just so. And then slow-but-steady on up three flights of stairs to the new study.

"Maybe your idea of installing a tiny freight elevator is worth reconsidering," she panted when she got to the top. "Just a little back-up now that I've committed to another couple of decades here."

"I could hear your knees creaking from the third floor landing, even with the music" Sherlock said, and she could hear the pleased smile in his voice, "although it was the adagio."

She set the tray down on the work table and poured herself a cup before going to sit under the skylight. A few minutes later she heard Sherlock's chair push back and a few steps until he paused after spotting what was on the tray. "I thought he might keep Angus company," she said, nodding toward the shelf where their inanimate colleague calmly observed the proceedings. "But now that the bust's job is done, I was thinking of repainting the eyes so they're a bit less...intense."

"And the tea cozy?" She looked over, and he was holding the bust in one hand, adjusting the red and green knit tea cozy pulled over its dome with the other.

"I was thinking 'beret' at first, but seriously, that gaze is too much. No wonder the perp surrendered so quickly. We could try sunglasses though. Or I could paint him with eyes closed. Thinking deep thoughts."

"Verisimilitude in all things; I approve, Watson." It could be said he was cradling the bust now, but she kept that to herself.

"I knew you would."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from “[To Begin With, the Sweet Grass](http://yearsrisingmaryoliver.blogspot.ca/2011/01/to-begin-with-sweet-grass.html)" by Mary Oliver


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/102411298042>: an alternate ending to 3x02 because I wanted the choice to be solely Kitty’s.

"Supposed to run that back to Sherlock, am I?"

Joan shook her head, thinking _just can’t win._ She shrugged. “Do whatever you want with it. It’s yours.”

Kitty watched her leave, steeling herself for a last judgmental look back. Watson didn’t oblige. No pity, no judgment, but plenty of holier-than-thou attitude. Just wasn’t clear whether that attitude was directed at _her_. She tapped the end of the pencil on the pages in front of her, not looking at the envelope lying on the edge of the desk. She didn’t want to touch it.

*

Heading from the bathroom to turn off the kitchen lights, Joan heard the swish of sliding paper and turned to see an interoffice envelope pushed under the door. The black sticky note pasted on front said, in silver marker, _Just read it. I want you to._ The clatter of heavy boots echoed down the hallway.


	3. Holding Pattern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/102561745223>

The two of them were at it again. Side by side, identical head-tilts, practically breathing in sync. Sherlock’s right index finger tapped the usual three-two beat that drove me batty. It’d go on and on, the only accompaniment to his increasingly aggravating silence. It was a no-win for me; if I stayed quiet, he’d snap at me for not venturing a theory of my own. If I spoke up, he’d snarl at the interruption. Well, not always. To be fair, I’d usually get a hard glare and acknowledgment of the effort, however insufficient he’d then demonstrate it to be. But that was before.

When Watson spoke, he froze. No, he stilled. Just for a moment, and then the fingers started up again as his mind tore off after hers. She was always still, though. What would it take to shift that self-satisfied mask? Even in our little clash, she’d been cool, no fire or excitement. And disappointed when she realized I had nothing to do with her case. When she realized it was Sherlock, and she’d been replaced.

Joke’s on me, though, isn’t it. Said he had colleagues in New York. Never said they’d be mine.


	4. Everything with a New Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/104453791003>: post-episode [3x06] - Sherlock apologises to Joan about bringing up her thoughts about self-harm/comparing her to Kitty

_"Why not just announce the position of your cranium to an awaiting gunman?"_

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When she reaches the top of the brownstone’s steps, Joan releases an exasperated sigh and rings the bell as a formality, picks in hand. Before she can insert the feeler, Sherlock opens the door wide and gestures for her to enter.

She hesitates and looks up at him skeptically. “Do you have a catapult set up to pelt me with something if I cross the threshold?” She tries to peer behind him. “Or is Kitty waiting around the corner with a net?”

He says nothing, maintaining butler-stance at the door, head tipped and eyes downcast. She shakes her head and steps up and into the foyer, which is deserted. He closes the door and silently gestures again for her to proceed him into the library.

"No Kitty?" She stands in the middle of the room. He passes by and collects a tray from the lock table, a formal tea setting with a china teapot she’s never seen, matching cups and saucers, and a matching plate of petits fours. Her eyebrows make for the 14-foot ceiling.

He sets the tray on the brown leather ottoman and gestures once more, toward the armchair. After a moment, she sits and waits. He pours, presents her with a saucered cup, a linen napkin, and holds the plate of pastries for her selection. After another moment, she accepts it all, perplexed. He serves himself and steps back to sit in the chair below Angus. The slats of light coming through the louvered shutters remind her of another time, long ago. With a tray and tea and him asleep by that chair. She shifts her jaw and sips.

"She’s out with friends." He pauses and contemplates his tea. "Three half-days off a week, scheduled at her discretion."

"Really." He still hasn’t met her eye.

"Hmm."

"You’re obviously not following her, so…what? A tracker on her phone?"

He frowns and sighs. Starts to bring his cup to his mouth and sets it back on the saucer which his other hand is holding on his lap. “I do have means of tracking her with her phone, of course. But no, I am not employing those measures as a regular practice. I am giving her ‘space’.” His fingers don’t move from the china but she can hear the scare quotes around the word.

"I guess she and I really aren’t the same, then." His frown deepens at the bitterness in her voice, and his lips twist into frustration.

"We’re all of us learning, Watson." His voice is almost a whisper. "Some more slowly than others." His gaze flicks up to hers, face softened from scowl to sorrow and back to neutral before she can be sure what she saw. He looks down at his cup and sips, and she sips. He refills their cups, and she takes a second tiny cake, and the bars of sunlight slide slowly across the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/104464241038>: POV — something that’s already happened, retold from another character’s perspective  
>  in response to “He could keep the damn spatula.” from [Trash](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2690621))

There’d been no need to pack up the entire house as if he’d never return, so aside from dust covers and the things he’d taken with him, everything else remained as it was. Everything except the obvious, but that difference was well masked by a new tenant who immediately moved the bed and dragged a few more pieces in from the lumber room next door. Between the rearrangements and the very different energy of the new resident, it was barely a trigger at all. Which was perhaps why finding her spatula left in the kitchen drawer gave him the unpleasant shock that it did.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/104920438573](http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/104920438573%22): Prompt: Joan/Ms Hudson  
>  [aka everybody laugh at Holmes]

"Oh, Joan is lovely, lovely company. I see why you—" Ms Hudson smiled knowingly. "I see why," she concluded, with a conspiratorial look that made Holmes want to apply scorch marks to the kitchen table with his blowtorch. Watson refused to elaborate on [the time the two of them had travelled together](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1813216/chapters/4276917), but they’d been thick as thieves since their return.

He refrained from demanding clarification now, certain it would only increase the risk of destruction Ms Hudson would charge extra to repair. Previous negotiations with her on standard housekeeping expectations irrationally excluded effects of chemical, fire, blade, and firearm experiments. Although strictly speaking the irritation he felt wasn’t experimental. Or was it? He observed her more closely: direct eye contact, slight tremor at the corner of her upper lip, abdomen tense from diaphragm control…

It took 34 seconds for his scowl to break her gaze, but her assured smile prevailed.


	7. Five Whole Sentences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/105203221198>: prompt: a reversal of the "Details" proposal for season 3.

_Watson—_

_It has become apparent that the partnership we embarked upon a year and a half ago no longer meets with your approval. I have taught you all I can; you don’t need me any more, and your plans to leave our shared workspace clearly indicate you are ready to move on. Therefore, I have accepted an offer to continue the arrangement I made with MI6 and will be relocating overseas immediately._

_Ms Hudson will oversee closing the brownstone; please contact her at your earliest convenience once you have made your residence elsewhere. I commend Clyde to your care._

_—Holmes_


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/105222956403>: Forty-nine, and Joan and Andrew, candlelight dinner.

She was so tired it took three fumbling tries to get the key in the lock and push open the door into her dark apartment. She could just make out the long lump on the couch that appeared to be Andrew, and a soft snore confirmed her observation. In front of him, the coffee table was pulled toward the middle of the room and covered with a formal place setting. Two rose tapers were the only light in the room, burned down half their length.

"Joan?" His sleepy voice sounded confused.

"What’s all this?" She dropped her coat and bag on the floor, upbringing be damned, and walked over to perch on the edge of the couch by his waist, reaching down for a hug.

“‘s our anniversary,” he mumbled into her hair. “Seven weeks.”

"Forty-nine days," she said, surprised. "I have a thing for square numbers."

"I remembered. An odd funny thing to care about. I like that." His hand rubbed her back, and she sighed, sagging onto him. "I like your odd funny things." And then her stomach growled loudly, and he said, "Yes, ma’am!" and got up to pull the plates kept warm in the oven.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/105229187078>: Your age = younger than me. Fic promprt: Ms. Hudson, Joan & maybe Kitty having tea and kvetching + 43 and suggest girl’s night in at Joan’s place with Ms Hudson, Kitty, and a whole lot of Xena

"Was that the forty-third episode or the forty-forth?" Kitty squinted at the back of the dvd box.

"Forty-three," Joan said.

"Forty-four," Leonora said simultaneously.

"Forty-three, if you count the two-parter as one, which it is."

"If they’d shown it as a single, two-hour episode, perhaps. But it was broadcast over two weeks. I vividly recall the agony of waiting to find out how it would be resolved." It seemed Leonora hadn’t quite recovered.

"We might as well just call it two 14-hour episodes given the way we’ve spent this weekend," Kitty said, collapsing against the couch and rubbing her eyes.

"The youngest among us has a point," Joan conceded, emptying the third bottle of wine across their glasses. She raised hers in a wobbly toast. "To the company of women. Who’s up for season three?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/105235086368>: 46 or 47 and Prohibition era poisoning cases involving illegal hooch

The Brooklyn Historical Society’s reading room was quiet except for the occasional crinkle of carefully turned pages. Sherlock was researching a very cold case involving grave robbing in the 1890s. Joan found the detail she needed for a private client quickly and turned to browsing old newspapers.

"Did you know illegal hooch was produced at the brownstone?"

Sherlock’s head shot up, eyes excited. “Our brownstone?”

"Says here forty-six or forty-seven arrests eventually shut it down in 1927 after repeated incidents and several neighborhood men almost died." She turned the brittle newspaper. "It mentions three hidden compartments in the basement."

"Three? I only know two!" He hastily closed the folders and boxes he’d requested from the archives and was up on his feet in seconds. Her grin grew with his enthusiasm, and she started to laugh when he came around the table to pull out her chair.

"You’re quite the gentleman when you have contraband hiding places to discover," she said as he half-dumped her off the seat. "You can go on without me, you know."

"Why would I want to do that?" he said, bobbing on his toes as he helped her with her coat. "Shall we?"


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/105297399043>: 44 …? and maybe Bell being snowed in at home

"Where’re the rest of the channels?" Marcus’s cousin’s daughter bounced her head against the back of the couch and bounced the remote on her thigh.  
  
"You just flipped through ‘em. Ten times, at least. That’s all I got." He dried his hands on the kitchen towel and draped it over the oven handle to dry.  
  
"That’s _it_? But there’s only 44!”  
  
"You counted? When’d you learn to count that high?"  
  
"Uncle Marcus, I’m nine!"  
  
"You got some ID to prove that?"  
  
"Uncle Marcus…"  
  
"I’m not home much to watch tv, but I’ve got some old-people movies you probably won’t like. Or we could suit up and brave the blizzard to see what’s playing at the theater down the street."  
  
"Can I get popcorn?"  
  
"You can have popcorn here, if you want." He stepped over to look in the fridge. "I even have butter."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/105481170983>: post nutmeg [3x07] break up

Joan stood in the foyer. “This isn’t working for me,” she said as she put her lock picks away, all too aware that Sherlock had given them to her when she first started down this path.

Sherlock sat at the lock table and didn’t look up. “Don’t be vague,” he snapped, scowling at files spread in front of him.

"You. Me. Working together. We’re not partners. That’s your doing. Until you undo it, I’m done. I have no problem mentoring Kitty, as she chooses. But your ‘volunteering,’ your butting-in unasked; that’s over." She shut the door firmly behind her.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/105924186143>: 40+...and an Elementary-Dostoevsky fic

The stack of thick tomes listed precariously, and Joan steadied it to pull the third one from the top. She held it warily, unopened, chewing her lip. Sherlock had piled up over 40 books outside her door since she started, but this was the only novel. And she wasn’t going to read it.  
  
Liam studied Russian Literature in college, intending to be a translator. He would read to her, alternating languages, reveling in the sounds. The first sign something was wrong was when he stopped. Since then, Dostoevsky made her cry. It was one of the few things that did.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/106352841313>: 45 prompt : breakfast in bed.

The first time Andrew brought her breakfast in bed, Joan suddenly remembered an appointment with a client and hid in the shower to regain her composure. She walked forty-five blocks to fill that cover story and berate herself for overreacting. It’s not like there was ever anything sentimental in Sherlock’s blatant attempts to manipulate her time and time again with his early morning trays and agendas.  
  
Things were good with Andrew — very good — and never reminding her of what she used to have was part of that. The next day, she got up early and brought him breakfast instead.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/106364765788>: 742 & three characters you like that aren't Joan or Sherlock celebrating a shared birthday

"Maybe something came up." Ken put his phone down and looked over Emily’s shoulder again when the restaurant door opened, but it wasn’t Joan.  
  
"She emailed me yesterday to say she’d be here, so she definitely remembered then." Emily frowned down at the open menu and then closed it decisively. "Forget it. She promised me like 742 times she’d be here, just like the last dozen times she didn’t show. Let’s order."  
  
"Don’t be like that Em. Isn’t it better that she’s like this instead of moping around like she was two years ago? She’s happy. Let’s be happy for her." Hope gave a desperate look to Ken.  
  
"Maybe this is the year we should throw her a surprise birthday party instead of having her be the only one we’re not celebrating with ours," Ken said. "After what, a couple of decades of our combo that’s probably getting a little old. So to speak."  
  
Emily shrugged and sighed. “Fine. We can stage it as a fake crime scene. Maybe then she’ll show up.” She raised her hand to get the waiter’s attention. “Hi — the person we were waiting for isn’t coming after all. We’re ready to go ahead without her.”


	16. Uncertain Terrain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/106635165988>  
> [nairobiwonders](http://nairobiwonders.tumblr.com)' bittersweet prompt fills [Aunt Letty](http://nairobiwonders.tumblr.com/post/106382256349/aunt-letty) & [untitled [...more than coffee]](http://nairobiwonders.tumblr.com/post/106583005864/amindamazed-replied-to-your-post-aunt-letty) in turn prompted me. This piece takes place within the same story, and probably won't make much sense if you don't read the other parts first. Which you should, anyway.

When he first received Watson's terse email saying she was not to be contacted, Holmes deduced her intent was merely to dole out more penance for his abysmal behaviour last year, which they both knew he'd disregard at the first sign of a case. Then he learned she'd also informed Gregson she would be unavailable for some weeks. "She said it was a personal matter." Gregson shuffled the tedious markers of his managerial responsibilities from one pile to another, pausing for a moment to look up at him over the rim of his glasses. (He bit back the observation that Gregson required a new bifocal prescription.) "You got a problem with that? I suggest keeping it to yourself."  
  
He let the challenge lie with an off-hand remark about not having read her message. The murder required barely half his attention with sufficient remaining to consider his options, which were few. Surveillance was no longer effective; a direct approach would at the very least allow him to observe the scene. He left Bell in pursuit of the likely perpetrator and proceeded to Chelsea. He was a block away when he saw her heading for the subway. Strictly speaking, he simply took his time to catch up to her, not wishing to intrude upon her thought process; only the most tiresome of pedants would construe that as "following."  
  
He paused outside her destination after she pushed through the heavy brass door, the external facade of the structure its original design despite the likely complete overhaul of its innards some time in the last thirty years. If she were working on a private case that required her full attention, she wouldn't have withheld that from Gregson. Who, in turn, would have rather enjoyed taunting him with any such forbidden fruit, had it existed. Therefore, she entered the building in the context of actual personal matters and he would do well to honour the clearly delimited "No Trespassing" sign she posted. He shifted his weight from side to side three times before springing forward decisively.  
  
Maternal relatives of the relevant generation would likely have remained in China, so he approached the reception desk and asked to see the patient named Watson. His obliging informant indicated that "she" currently had a visitor, but just the one, and he was welcome to go on up after signing in. He hesitated and pretended to be summoned by his phone to stall for time. The receptionist nodded in approval when he headed back to the entrance, phone to his ear. The day was suddenly bright and loud where he stood on the broad front steps, unsure of his next move. These were murky emotional waters he should be only too glad to avoid. Terra pericolosa indeed, to mix his cartographic metaphors.  
  
When one was venturing into uncertain terrain, one should be prepared. He'd require work that could be easily interrupted, and she would need simple sustenance. Like many dedicated healers, Watson was abysmal at requesting help for herself. She'd been empty-handed on her way here, and the facility obviously had limited amenities within. Although her innate obstinacy would disincline her to welcome his presence, food had been generally well received when he offered it, before. He'd go to the brownstone for supplies and return to await her verdict of his presumption. Perhaps a small concession in the form of one of those odious protein concoctions she drank would smooth things over. Perhaps she would allow him to sit with her and wait in silence once more. Perhaps this time, the foregone conclusion's inevitable sadness would also come with a measure of peace.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> responses to a prompt meme: first sentence given and the fill is the next five sentences. I only managed to stick to 5 for two of them. First sentences supplied (in order of the fills) by [charmingnotdarling](http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/107176403368), [beanarie](http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/107285037048), [nairobiwonders](http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/107382180393), [time-converges](http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/107461299343), and [superjulie57](http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/107630848158). Thanks to all for sending the prompts!

* * *

"We're going to talk about this right now, or I'm gone." Joan was proud her voice didn’t shake. The kitchen island stood between them, and her wallet was clutched in one hand and her keys in the other.

“You’re gonna walk out of your own place? Way to tip your hand, Joanie.” Liam staggered against the high stools, his words slurring and eyes losing focus as the drug took hold. “You do wha’ you want. An’ so will I.” He collapsed on the couch, letting his head fall back. She clenched her keys in her fist until their bite forced the waiting tears from her eyes.

When she came back the next day, the stereo was gone and her jewelry box dumped on the bed. Out of frustration, no doubt, as she’d already emptied it and moved the valuable things to her locker at the hospital a few weeks before, after the tv mysteriously “broke”. The plastic bag from the hardware store clanked when she set it down on the island, and she silently thanked her uncle for teaching her how to install new locks.

* * *

"You're mocking me."

"Watson," Sherlock said, waving the rolled-up glossy catalog in his fist at her, "this describes a state-of-the art timepiece. It has a ten-year back-up battery, can be remotely controlled via internet, and includes a dozen different alarm options including an authentic Swiss cuckoo-clock call. There is nothing remotely ridiculous about such an achievement of human ingenuity."

Joan sighed as she pretended to ignore him and deleted the third email from the agency trying to set her up with her next client before these six weeks were up. “Maybe I’d have an easier time waking up if the alarm clock delivered breakfast in bed, too,” she muttered.

* * *

"Dance with me."

Holmes sat on the floor in the sitting room surrounded by M files and looked up when Irene spoke, startled out of his reverie and a bit surprised by how dark it was and thus how long he’d been mulling the complexity of the mind orchestrating those brutal crimes. She was cleaning brushes, having finished work with the fading light. Her current commission required daylight, she said, although she painted other things at all hours with artificial light readily enough, her sleep habits as erratic as his.

He stretched the tightness out of his back and raised an eyebrow. “Is that a euphemism? I’m surprised; indirection is not your usual style.”

"Oh, so you find me predictable, do you?" There was an edge to her tone he’d heard before, a sudden sharp pique that preceded withdrawal if not properly addressed. Emotion, submission, appeal of any kind would be rejected outright. But if his logic was persuasive, it would assuage her displeasure.

"Only in the sense that you eschew the conventional approach. As do I." He got to his feet and slowly walked toward her, ready to follow her lead.

* * *

"The fifteen missed calls should have been the first clue."

"Uh, yeah; that’s why I asked you about it. Might just be a telemarketing mixup but I couldn’t trace the number." Sherlock’s condescension was a constant irritant but Kitty bit her tongue as he paged through the records on her phone. She watched closely on Watson’s advice to be sure he didn’t take the opportunity to snoop further, but she hadn’t ever found him to be as invasive as Watson had.

At first she’d scoffed at Watson’s paranoia, but she’d seen enough now to believe Sherlock crossed any number of boundaries with his former partner that he rarely approached with his protégée. She wouldn’t still be here if he had, certainly, given what was in the past, but she suspected she wouldn’t be able to stand it no matter what. Watson clearly struggled with that too, but the chemistry between them remained. And more to the point, it worked. They worked, somehow. The pair of them were an odd match, no two ways about it.

* * *

Joan couldn't believe her eyes when she opened the door to her apartment to find Sherlock sitting naked on her settee.

"I’m not intentionally disrobed, Watson, no need to panic," he said, his condescension somewhat less effective with a little throw pillow perched decorously upon his lap. That would be his to keep, she decided. "The speedo’s seams dissolved before I could change, and then I heard your key in the lock. Rather than violate your delicate sensibilities—"

"What the hell are  _your_  ‘delicate sensibilities’ doing on my couch in the first place?”


	18. Dance with Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/108017790888>: NairobiWonders [provided the opening lines](http://nairobiwonders.tumblr.com/post/108008816779/dance-with-me-all-the-false-starts-ive-had) for this prompt.

“Dance with me.” Sherlock stood motionless trying to process the meaning of the request. Kitty stood waiting for his reply. “Come on, Sherlock, I’m not asking for a shag, just a dance.” Watson sat behind him trying to contain her amusement.

He imagined Watson could see the flush making him sweat under the collar at the back of his neck, but after a moment she took pity on him, and stood up, nudging him behind her with her shoulder. “I’ll dance — I’ve been sitting too long anyway.” She shimmied past Kitty in stocking-feet to turn up the volume on the stereo and looked back at him over Kitty’s shoulder. “This isn’t a floor show, mister. If you’re not joining in, you can get back to work.” 

"Or order dinner," Kitty sang, matching her words to the tune. 

"That’s. What. I. Meant!" Watson called out in time with the song, tango-stepping toward him. He evaded her mock advance and the understanding in her eyes, hiding behind a scowl as he scanned the contacts list on his phone. 

"If this is what passes for professionalism….I wash my hands of the pair of you," he muttered, ordering the usual and taking Watson’s place on the couch. He kept his eyes focused on the case files she’d spread out over the cushions but let the sound of the two of them laughing under the music release a small smile as his toes flexed with the beat.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/109532704008>: 100 words/episode

**309\. The Eternity Injection**  
Joan fingered the skirt Sherlock laid out that she hadn’t seen in over a year. From a box of clothes she couldn’t decide if she wanted any more (still regretting that brutal closet purge when she was 22), stuffed up far back on the top shelf of the closet upstairs, in that room no longer hers. In those last days, angry and hurt, she’d fled without looking back, and through force of will had refused to consider what was left behind. Suddenly, a flash of memories, and she dropped it as if her hand would be burned by time dilation.


	20. Standard Deviation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/110139569338> includes screenshot of the breakfast tray Sherlock brought Joan in 3x12, "The One That Got Away."
> 
> _"I’ve missed it."_

The tea is non-negotiable, unless it’s a morning for coffee, but the data collected is insufficient for his purposes at this time so that variable is set aside for the moment. Tea variety confirmed on the recent site visit. 

Despite adhering to any number of prosaic and stereotypical practices of little value or benefit, Watson is nonetheless accepting of almost any breakfast provided to her upon first awaking, within certain established parameters. He wonders briefly if she was always this way and starts to formulate a question or two for her mother on childhood food preferences before coming to his senses. Mary Watson is uncommonly skilled at redirecting conversation toward topics he has no interest in pursuing. Better not to engage. Finding out whether Watson has always been an ecumenical eater can wait. Focus instead on verifying that she still is, and lure or rather satiate the hunger for novelty along with breaking her fast. 

Today’s experiment centred on spreads, picking up where they last left off: which and in what quantities did Watson prefer on her toast. Butter, jam, peanut butter. Past experience taught him too many options muddied the results. He had no categorization for a response that consisted of laughing at the carefully curated arrangement of ten varieties of jam. Laying them out in an array based on allergen scratch-testing should not have been inherently humorous, but she broke out in giggles at unpredictable intervals for the rest of the day, and it ruined all attempts at incorporating even a single variety of jam for some months after. 

Baked goods uniformly produce pleased smiles while being consumed although are generally coincident with an higher than average energy lull two hours later. Porridge is rarely acceptable unless impeccably timed to be ready within 3.4 minutes of her transition from prone to seated on days when cloud-cover exceeds 75%. But even under ideal conditions, rejection on the basis of texture retains high probability. Cold cereal likewise holds little appeal, which at least has the benefit of reducing the need for him to share. Eggs are the same: painstaking timing requirements, exacting texture requirements. The days she stumbled bleary into the kitchen, before, were yet another area of research beyond the scope of his tray study, and he hadn’t bothered to record results those mornings. He assumed there would always be opportunity for that later. He knows better now. 

But here she is again, second morning in as many weeks, and he knows not to remark upon it or allow himself to plan for the future. He’s using it to distract from his worry about Kitty, and the seriousness of the case makes him feel guilty for being glad of Watson asleep in the brownstone again. Not glad of the case, certainly not, but that it washed her up on his shores, and she worked until she had to rest, and she didn’t even pretend she wasn’t going to curl up on the couch. The only unknown was which couch, a question that opened whole new vistas of experimental opportunity he might look forward to. An occasion worthy of the pink grapefruit juice, even though he’d originally planned to test her preferences for juice, fruit, and other fruit-based concoctions that would never occur in nature, once morning temperatures topped 10 degrees centigrade. Perhaps spring would come early.


	21. Frame of Reference

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/110322586978>: set during 3x13, "Hemlock"

Observing the tortoise meander across the canvas, Sherlock reminisces about Clyde’s turn as an ambulance when the brownstone’s front door opens, and it takes a moment to recall that’s no longer the normal state of affairs. Watson strides purposefully into the room, and he inquires why she’s here. 

"Oh, I just came here to punch you." 

The image of an over-stuffed Rolodex wheel comes to mind, cards flapping, each identifying a separate instance conceivably responsible for her ire. Rude questions, chemical explosions, moldy reading, inopportune observations, abused toothbrushes, late nights and early mornings, criminal mastermind exes…Then she punches him, and his head rocks back with the force of her intent. 

"I _hate_ it when you’re right!” 

Ah. And now the image is replaced with a long bank of card catalogue drawers, cross-listed by title and subject. He’ll need her to be more specific.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/111521244458>: beanarie asked for Joan from Leonora [Hudson]'s point of view.

Leonora didn’t know if she’d changed, or if Joan had. Her first impression held for a long time, perhaps because so much else in her life was in flux. Joan Watson was a steady warm light, a woman who knew what she wanted and didn’t fret over wanting it. Confident and compassionate, so you never felt like she was judging you for being so much less sure of, well, everything than she was. And that was still true, very much so. Joan was always kind and sure. But lately, something was different. A flicker, maybe, in that steady light. Perhaps it was simply a matter of knowing her better, seeing her more clearly as Leonora found her own steadiness and set out to shape her own life as she wanted rather than letting it trail after the needs of others. And yes, that was part of it. The admiration remained, but Leonora’s rebuilt self-confidence no longer allowed her to feel she could never be worthy of admiration herself. Still, there was a shadow in Joan’s light now. Something was troubling her. Most likely something to do with Sherlock’s sabbatical and, she sensed, unfinished business there.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/111521244458>: beanarie asked for Joan and Leonora [Hudson] from a third party's point of view. Set during 3x04, "Bella"

"So?" Kitty flinched awake from her nap on the library couch, irritated by her bloody reflexes that refused to learn friend from foe. She heard the rattle of dishes on a tray set down in the study and the movement of two people in the room. 

"So, what?" Watson asked, as the clink and burble of tea and spoons continued. She’d been snapping at Sherlock earlier in the day but sounded relaxed now, as she teased Ms Hudson. 

"Oh, don’t give me that, Joan Watson. You used your investigative wiles to get me to talk about Arjen—" 

"—Yeah, it took all of two seconds for you to wave the packaging on these fancy Dutch waffle cookies he brings you," Watson said, her mouth full of something crunchy. Kitty could smell the warm biscuits now; she’d had them before, but not since coming to New York. Surely it wouldn’t require a boyfriend in Holland to get some here. She clutched the plaid blanket to her middle when her stomach growled, hoping to remain unnoticed. 

"So, what treats will you bring me from Copenhagen?" 

Watson sputtered a little at that, and Kitty rolled her eyes; she imagined Ms Hudson doing the same to accompany her low chuckle. 

"I’m not going to Denmark," Watson insisted weakly. "I’ve got… You know. Work. And things. Here." 

"Things here," Ms Hudson repeated. "One of those ‘things’ will be off to Copenhagen for a while. And isn’t that the point of having a partner, to share the load from time to time?" 

There was a hard clink of a cup hitting a saucer. “I don’t have a partner. My business is less than a year old, I promised Kitty I’d help, I can’t just up and leave—” Kitty tensed on the couch. 

"No, of course. I misspoke." Ms Hudson’s calm tone somehow managed to clear the tension with six syllables without sounding at all condescending. Even Kitty’s own shoulders eased a bit against the armrest. How did she do that? 

"All I meant, is that, should you decide, you have resources available that could hold the fort for a long weekend. Or even a week, if you were to be so bold. An exercise for Kitty, perhaps, with supervision from Sherlock. Isn’t most of your correspondence with your clients handled by email and phone anyway? You needn’t be completely out of touch. But neither need you be here the entire time Andrew’s there. That’s all I’m suggesting." 

The room was quiet, punctuated by more poured tea and gentle pings of china. Someone sighed. “I bet they’ve something better than those Danish butter cookies in the big blue tins,” Joan muttered. 

"What are long cold Scandinavian winters good for if not perfecting baked goods? Is what i always say." 

"I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard you say that." 

"Mmm. Well now you have. Shall we split the last _stroopwafel_?”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/112692846243> inspired by the promo and sneak peeks for 3x16, "For All You Know" but entirely jossed by that episode.

Joan slammed the front door and threw her coat at the hook, storming past as it missed and slid down the wall. Holmes sat cross-legged on the floor between the library and the lock room, cradling Angus in his lap. He didn’t look up. 

"What the hell do you think you’re doing, Sherlock?" She wrenched Angus away and set the bust down hard on the lock table. Holmes didn’t say anything, and a shard from the patched skull made a tiny plink in the hollow inside. "You don’t want to fight this, what, because it’s some sort of penance? For not being infallible? For leaving the scene of a crime when you were high?" She paced between the two rooms, hands balled into fists. "For being an addict?" She glared at him, but he continued to stare through the space in his hands where Angus had been. 

"You know what? I’m not going to stop you from working the steps, if that’s what you think you’re doing." He gave a little nod and pressed his lips into a tight line, eyes still averted. She stepped up close and loomed over him. She took a deep, shaky breath, and he swallowed. "You think you deserve this? Fine. Whatever. But I don’t." She spoke through clenched teeth, and his face folded again, deeper. She stepped away and looked across all three rooms before coming back to stand a few paces away, feet planted solid. Her voice was low and bitter now. "This is my life too, this work we do, and you owe _me_. You fight this for me. As penance for leaving me.” She grabbed the case file he’d ignored and left, slamming first the front door again, and 23 seconds later the door to her office below. The faint aftershock reverberated through him far longer than physics or physiology would allow.


	25. For Science

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay. so. [beanarie committed mpreg](http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/112822095685) (please, go read it for Joan's reaction) and [I took the next step](http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/112822921534) after we discussed baby names. Like you do.

When Violet Hui Watsonia Forensic Science Holmes is three, she wants to play catch in the park every day, which amounts to lots of running after the ball. Given the number of variants generated from her (disputed) full name in those years, it takes a few tries before her parents determine the sequence of sounds to which she’ll reliably respond when it’s time to go home. She doesn’t notice the sudden straining of buttonholes across Sherlock’s chest or Joan’s muttered “at least I kept it off the birth certificate.” 

When Science is five, she loves ghost stories and tells her kindergarten teacher (because Joan insisted they at least try the public schools instead of defaulting to homeschooling even though she knows homeschooling is going to happen eventually. She predicts third grade and tells Sherlock fourth, but they’re all surprised by a string of remarkably compatible teachers and classmates, and it’s not until Science is eleven that she declares she’s done with all that, let’s blow something up already) that she lives in a haunted house and her babysitter is a bald man with a hole in his head and no body named Angus. 

When Science is eight it occurs that her household’s frequent refrain may not always be short for “Forensic Science.” Or even, in fact, refer to her. She’s not 100% certain that’s true; further study is required. 

When Science is ten, they have to go away for a month, and sometimes Joan is with her and sometimes Sherlock. Their hiding place has excellent acoustics, and she practices her violin for hours every day for the glorious sounds she can make. Then there’s an explosion nearby that shakes dust from the ceiling and many police officers scramble through, and they’re bundled into an empty moving truck for what feels like days. When they’re finally released, she hears somebody say the DNA is a match, and Joan says “good riddance” but is so angry Sherlock sends her off to wrap things up even though Science knows he usually likes to be the one to explain how the case ended. This time he just sits with her up on the roof in the lee of the beehives (and the fresh air is great but the thin scrape of her bow is all but lost in the the vast cluttered soundscape of the city around them) and pretends to listen to her play until she starts intentionally making mistakes to get his attention, and he rewards her with a half-quirk of eyebrow and mouth. 

When Sci is fourteen she’s tired of single stick and combinatorics and file folders and secret passwords and bees. She leaves her phone plugged in at home which Sherlock should understand to mean “Leave me alone” because that’s what Joan does once or twice a year, and goes to a coffee shop in Queens with a battered copy of Octavia Butler’s [_Xenogenesis_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lilith%27s_Brood) and then goes to a movie and another coffee shop and tries to sneak back into the brownstone at 2am and overhears Joan through the kitchen window, “It’s all right. She knows what we’ve taught her. She’s all right.” 

When Sci is sixteen, she finds the publications documenting the research that created her, authored by one of Sherlock’s more obscure pseudonyms, which she deciphers immediately. That it happens to be her first weekend left alone in the brownstone is incidental to her extensive snooping in both parents’ rooms (Sherlock had long assumed such snooping was over and done years before and that his false identity was impervious. Joan had long practice of not leaving things anywhere she didn’t want someone else to see.) (Years later Science learns that her parents were called away that weekend to prevent her uncle from succumbing to an unofficial death penalty. Sherlock won’t discuss it and vows she’ll never meet him. She doesn’t tell him she already has.) 

When Science is seventeen, she’s grown used to the idea of her unusual birth and is kind of impressed but decides to give them a hard time anyway on principle. She slaps a copy of one of the journals featuring the project on the lock room table one afternoon and says sternly “You two have some explaining to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit where credit is due: Science was all beanarie. Violet is one of the names across various Holmsian fanons assigned to Sherlock's mother. Hui is an invention of sanguinity; she gave it to Joan for a middle name in her "[Telling the Bees](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1372351)," and I borrowed it for [Joan's birth father's name in one of my fics](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1565849/chapters/3400841). So my only original contribution, aside from assembling it all, was Forensic.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/113522791863> episode tag/fixit for 3x17.
> 
> _“I know because you’re my daughter.”_

“First thing, Mom. You did not forget my birthday. That was Sherlock being an ass. In his defense, that’s apparently how he was raised.” Sherlock started to interject but subsided with an impatient sigh at Joan’s hard stare and deflated entirely once Mary caught his eye. “He was worried about you. _I’m_ worried about you. Please come to the neurologist anyway. She’ll either prove you right, and you can hold it over me forever, or we’ll find out if there’s a problem we can do something about.”

“Or a problem we can’t do anything about,” Mary said, bringing her arms a little closer to her body with a half-step back. “This is not your job, Joan.”

“Things are different since Po Po. We don’t know— You’re not her. It’s not all genetics.” Joan looked down at the useless bag in her hands and took a breath. Then she straightened her spine and took a half-step towards Mary to close the gap. “Of course it’s my job. Not because I used to be a doctor.” She reached out her hand to rest on Mary’s wrist. “Because I’m your daughter.”


	27. Crowd Around to Get a Close Look

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a 221b for [language-escapes](http://tmblr.co/myVlt-zGeHQrCgBM-5NWkig), [sanguinarysanguinity](http://tmblr.co/mg1E8aKAfQ3EWg4ngP-Gonw) & [grrlpup](http://tmblr.co/mppYXO76SiunQY-s3dktM6g). Alludes to a great unanswered mystery from _Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century_ , but since that show offers no explanation, you don't need to be familiar with it.  
> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/115180563268>

Joan came into the kitchen to find Sherlock slumped in a chair, face mashed on the table and the rope on [Dalí's](http://almostbohemian.com/sleep/) pulley hanging slack above the pots and pans on the floor. (Eventually, both of them learned to sleep through that crash.) As she approached, she saw he was drooling on a pad of paper covered with scribbled lines of text at odd angles, his latest strategy to try to capture those fleeting subconscious insights. His right arm rested nearby, and a fountain pen lay cradled in his lax fingers.

She tip-toed closer to re-cap the pen in case the ink hadn't already dried out, and her name on the page caught her eye. She couldn't help but read it, and then what she saw compelled her to read it again, to no avail. She set the pen down, rubbed her eyes, and took a third look. Her breath broke through her tightly pressed lips with a huff, and she slapped up a hand to hold back more. She kept staring, then looked out through the back windows trying to visualize what he'd dreamt. The longer she considered the words burned into her memory, the more certain she became she didn't want to know. Some mysteries were best left unexplained:

> [ _The chimpanzees screamed when little Watson was born._ ](http://sanguinarysanguinity.tumblr.com/post/114583669398/amindamazed-thefibonaccist-lostthehat-that)


	28. Game Ending, Double-Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/119185852538> (17 may 2015): 221b set near the end of 3x24, A Controlled Descent.
> 
> content warning for implied drug use
> 
> _"It's the bottom of the ninth."_

The high-tension wire keeping him in check snapped when he saw the text on the twice-stolen phone. She asked, "Can you talk?" but as it turned out, he could not. He kept her words gripped in his fist as all of his drained away. Oscar said something but aphasia took hold, releasing his body to reply the only way it could. After, when the abhorrent voice that had haunted him for years was finally silenced, he sought her words again but it was too late. The marks on the screen were as undecipherable as the Voynich Manuscript. But he remembered he'd been released, and it no longer mattered from what. Those responsibilities were in other hands. Good hands. Her hands. Hands that did not break bones or grind words from unwilling mouths with pressure and pain.

For a few blessed moments all he felt was his pounding heart and hard breath, but the tide of the world would soon rush back no matter how hard he kicked, and he would be pulled under. He could wait passively for that churning morass of stimulation, or he could control his own descent. He dropped the fragile connection that was his last link to her and took up Oscar's gift.

The best way out was through the tunnel and into that box.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/103720963398> (27 nov 2014): my response to a prompt posted by NairobiWonders for a group fic, which she started with:
>
>> “Put your pants on and let’s go!” He flung Sherlock’s trousers at his sleeping form. This would go down as possibly one of the more bizarre nights Marcus had spent in his life.
>> 
>> Driving to Albany to interview a witness with Holmes and Watson in the back seat was a nightmare. Joan by herself would have been fine but add Holmes into the mix and … well … Things got out of hand quickly. Spending the night with Pipo’s Traveling Circus was probably where they went wrong.

“These aren’t my trousers, detective. Do you need to visit an optometrist?” Holmes remained flat on his back but dangled the rainbow-striped balloon pants from one high-held hand. The large white polka dots appeared, no, actually _were_ glow-in-the-dark in the dim shed.

“The pants you came with are still wedged under the hydraulic lift. Besides, those match your socks. And since it’s below freezing outside, I thought they’d be a more useful distraction than you running around flashing your pale goose-pimply hair—”

“Oh god, the two of you shut up,” Joan groaned, rolling over and burying herself further inside her sleeping bag.

“I warned you not to trust that beverage, Watson,” Holmes said, polka dots billowing around him.

“The drink was hot and I was freezing and shut. Up.” She pushed herself up to seated, and Marcus accidentally caught Holmes’ eye before they both quickly looked away and not at each other and certainly not at the impressive asymmetrical array of Joan’s bed head. “Just shut up,” she muttered.


	30. Versatility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> originally posted on tumblr <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/121275976448> 11 june 2015

“We’re gonna need that ladder,” Marcus said, eyeing the upper reaches of the library where Joan told him the books they needed were shelved. “If it’s not just set-dressing, that is,” raising a skeptical eyebrow around the room at the detritus piled up everywhere.

“Believe it or not, Sherlock really does use this stuff.” Joan set wooden crate down on the floor by the leather chair with a thud. “Oof, that’s heavy.” She frowned at her palms and brushed them against her pant legs. “And dusty. But yeah, the ladder’s fully functional,” and then she started to laugh.

Marcus glanced over and then turned to face her, eyebrows raised, when she blushed. “Want to share with the rest of the class?”

She pressed her crooked finger against her upper lip, trying to settle, and cleared her throat. “Oh. Well, it’s just something he said the day I arrived.”

“Ah, never mind then, he told me… I mean, I know there are rules about confidentiality and all that.”

“Yes, though I’m sure he’d be more than happy to expound on this if he were here. It wasn’t… You know how he has to test boundaries with new people. I was new people. He made a crack about making use of the ladder with one of his…guests. Whom I’d just passed on my way into the house. We didn’t exactly meet, but she seemed…creative? From the little I saw.”

Marcus considered the ladder again, noticing now the pair of worn grooves on the rung above his head, which sparked a flare of speculation about just how creative Joan might be… He quickly looked away, up at the shelf far out of reach; they were working now, but maybe another time… He shrugged to cover his distraction. “Nothing wrong with a little creativity now and then,” he said as he rolled the ladder over and stepped up.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2 responses to a prompt by time-converges and possibility221 about Sherlock sketching Joan without her knowledge, inspired by a [gif of Sherlock drawing in 3x13](http://possibility221.tumblr.com/post/128941309098/sherlock-sketching-season-3-episode-13-i-wonder). posted on tumblr <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/128951819333> & <http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/128957966773> 12 sep 2015

“Just a sec, Marcus, let me grab my…” Joan rummaged through the detritus on the lock table with her free hand, fumbling for the small notebook she’d left there. She thumbed it open to a blank page and picked up her pen. “Okay, go ahead. What are the coordinates?”

An hour later, she turned back to the notebook to review what she’d written and saw it was actually one of Sherlock’s, not hers. After checking that the other side was blank, she carefully tore out the page. On the next one was a pencil sketch of Clyde, mouth open and neck extended toward a strawberry as big as his head. She smiled and flipped the page to a study of the crime-scene doll-house kitchen complete with miniature blood spatter on the wall in red ink. Then a large room with three rows of folding chairs set up and indistinct silhouettes of seven seated people, drawn from a vantage point in the back. The model of the police horse and rider on Gregson’s desk. A (presumably) dead honeybee lying with its legs up in the air, ten-times life-size.

For a second she thought the last drawing was a landscape of old hills, low rounded layers of curves and folded earth, until she realized it was actually rumpled bedclothes covering a body lying on its side. Her bedclothes, in fact, and her body, judging by the roughed-in lamp sitting on the bedside chair and the tangle of dark hair on the pillow. Her face was hidden, but with just a few lines he’d captured the graceful arc of her fingers dangling over the mattress edge, palm up, almost as if she were reaching out to the observer in her sleep.

* * *

Holmes almost gave it up altogether when that Hemdale drone — no, that was an insult to bees — the gnat assigned to beleaguer him two hours a day suggested drawing as a therapeutic activity. Rationality prevailed, however, as he wasn’t about to sacrifice his skill at scientific illustration to spite that small mind. Not that he let on, of course; it would not do to encourage his keepers into imagining he had any intention of listening to a word they said.

Along those lines, he was still working out the practicalities of ignoring most of what his new minder required of him. Finding the balance between what he could accept and what Watson would believe was tedious in the extreme but worth it to be able to keep the brownstone. His father was nothing if not brutally direct in negotiation, and while he could never respect the man, he could grudgingly acknowledge his ability to manipulate. What he needed now was to determine how to do the same to Watson. Disregarding the frankly preposterous requirement that he go nowhere without her company was all too easily accomplished, and he had high hopes for evading the other strictures she imposed soon enough.

He watched her now across the cafe where she sat with a few friends, laughing over drinks. Their table was well lit, particularly in contrast to his shadowy corner; he could scarcely follow the line of his pen on the page in front of him as he drew what he saw: the sober companion ostensibly off-duty. The other women all turned to her, followed her lead, hoped for her approbation for whatever trivial or tawdry tale was offered. (He was a bit too far away to read lips, unfortunately.) She smiled and laughed but spoke little, and yet her friends hung on her every word. When she stood up to leave first, the rest of the party lingered briefly but broke up soon after. He put his sketchbook away, dissatisfied with what little he’d managed to capture with pen and ink. The last member of Watson’s group remained at the bar; she obviously did not want to go home yet. Or alone. Perhaps another method of data collection was in order.


	32. The Most Direct Route

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the season 4 promo video. I can’t quite get my brain around writing an AU with prison inmate Sherlock exchanging letters with Joan, but here’s another bit of epistolary fic instead. [posted to tumblr](http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/129889140228) 25 sep 2015
> 
> _“That is my roommate. He’s kind of a long story.”_

Dear Sherlock,  
It’s weird leaving you a note like this, but I’ll chicken-out if I try to do it in person, and since you’re always online, I need more time for my getaway than an email would provide. It also feels oddly important to leave a hard copy record of doing this. And I know you like real letters.

Kitty told me you saw the manuscript. Dug it out of the trash, she said. I suppose some part of me must have wanted you to find it eventually, or I would have wiped the hard drive. I was so hurt and angry at the time — You were suddenly gone, and I didn’t understand. And then I read your note, and I didn’t want to understand. So I packed up my room and ran away myself. I didn’t give that laptop another thought.

As for the title, sorry. I know you don’t like it. I don’t know why I called it that, except it started from a wish to talk about what it was like, learning from you and working with you. Becoming your partner. At the time, I still had a lot of catch-up to do, as a detective: I wasn’t ready to write The Casebook of Joan Watson. Maybe someday.

The few times I tried talking about our work to my friends, it always flopped: the details of our cases were either too gruesome, too tedious, or too complicated to share over dinner or coffee. I thought, maybe if I wrote them down, I could arrange them somehow, take my time to reconstruct that story you used to explain we were there to tell.

Gerald Castoro might have been the reason we met, but you’re the reason I stayed. It’s hard, sometimes, not being able to articulate why. So I tried.

Anyway, here it is. Kitty also said you claimed you hadn’t gone past the first page. I find that hard to believe, honestly. But maybe you thought it would just be more clutter in your attic. Either way, it’s taken me a year to work up the courage to give it to you now. I’ve half-talked myself out of it a dozen times this morning, so I’m just going to leave you the usb stick and this note and get on the road before I change my mind again. If anything can distract me from picturing your scowl as you read it, it’s a family weekend in the Poconos, refereeing for Oren and my mother.

J

ps: “Correcting” my American spelling doesn’t count as feedback. But I would like to know what you think. Even if you hate every last bit of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nairobiwonders posted [a reply](http://nairobiwonders.tumblr.com/post/129936227369) from Sherlock.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> response to a "story in your ask" meme, which I sent to sanguinity following a brainstorming session in which vampire AUs were mentioned. [posted to tumblr](http://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/131817256627) 24 oct 2015

_"I noticed you don’t have any mirrors around here.”_

* * *

If Joan didn’t know better, she’d almost wonder. Between the mirrors (lack thereof), nocturnal hours, the obsession with murder and mayhem and blood, always the blood… But she did know, that much at least.

Sherlock Holmes flirted with death; he’d walked a heroin high-wire but the relationship started much earlier than that, decades before. Possibly from birth, although she doubted she’d hear any truthful tale, let alone an origin story marred by involuntary manslaughter. But he also flirted with life like a being who still believed in it. She remembered, being. Not much use to the recollection; she relied on habit and experience to make her way through the living now.

Easier still when there weren’t any mirrors to remind her of what was long gone.


End file.
